The Nightmare on Baker Street
by KaydenStockwell
Summary: Watson always suspected that Holmes's odd sleeping habits, or lack thereof, were not always caused by a case.


I had never entirely believed that every span of sleep loss was caused by the undertaking of a new case. Sometimes, Holmes remained sleepless days after he rounded up a murder or a kidnapping. He attributed it to a few small details that had not been sorted out, but when I pried further, he bid me "Goodnight" and left me with more questions. I knew that he didn't sleep, for I could hear him pacing. When he played his violin at three in the mornings, I had always thought that, perhaps, it was something other than the desire to annoy me. What was actually occurring, however, shocked me completely.

It was very early on a Saturday evening, perhaps two. I had awoken to Holmes's voice. It was frightened, a tone not often emitted from my dear friend. I clambered out of my warm bed and entered his room. He was fast asleep, but something was very wrong. He was drenched in sweat, his eyes flicking around madly beneath their lids. He was whimpering. Suddenly, he began speaking, again in that frightened tone of voice.

"Watson…no! Please, no don't hurt him….no….no. Stop it! WATSON!" He ended the mutterings with a terrified yell. I left, not wanting him to become embarrassed because I had seen his dreams. He then awoke, his eyes flying to all corners of the room, like a trapped animal. I watched from the keyhole of his door. He just sat there for a few moments, panting like he had run a marathon. He wiped the sweat from his brow and got up. I saw him coming for the door and I scampered down the step to the sitting room as fast as my leg would permit me. He came down moments later and looked at me, as if surprised.

"Watson," he said, "I had thought that you were in bed."

"Couldn't sleep," I responded.

He sighed and sat down in his favorite arm chair. He sat in an odd position, far back in the chair, hugging his knees to his chin, like a child, almost. In some ways, I thought, I had always viewed Sherlock Holmes as a child. An over dressed, over articulated, six foot tall child. I looked at him with pity. Whatever creature had occupied his dreams had really frightened him, I could tell. He was still nervous, glancing around the room and…at me. As if worried that something awful would happen.

"Holmes," I asked cautiously, for I did not want him to shut down on me, "I, um, heard you talking in your sleep a while ago."

"Oh," was his only response.

"You were, erm, saying something about me, about someone hurting me."

He looked embarrassed. He inhaled and began to confide in me, something that he rarely did.

"I don't dream very frequently, Watson, I never have. But, when I do, they are about three people and three people only. The first of which, is my dear mother, may she rest in peace. The second, my brother, Mycroft. And the most recent, you.

"Me?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes. They are always awful, gruesome dreams. I dream of murders and kidnapping and lose. The one tonight was about you. We were at a warehouse in Surrey, why, I do not know. I was on the brink of catching a murderer and you were asking me, as usual, as to how I had come to my conclusions," he said. Holmes sounded…different. Not his usual aloof tone. He sounded embarrassed almost. I suspected that the nightmares had plagued him for quite some time.

"The man suddenly came running round the corner and tackled you. He took you hostage, a knife to your throat. It was," he gulped "horrible. I froze up, couldn't move. He was yelling nonsense and got this look in his eyes. He didn't just kill you. He…mutilated you. There was blood everywhere. And," he looked on the verge of tears now," I could do nothing to stop him. After he had gone, I could move and I went to your body, only to find you dying in my arms. You told me that I had failed and that I was a horrible friend to have let you die."

He then hid his face in his hands, his body racked with sobs. I had never realized how much that I meant too Holmes. I comforted the poor chap for a bit and he seemed better.

"Holmes, how long have these nightmares plagued you?"

"Since my second year of Secondary School. They obviously did not involve you, as we had yet to meet, but they were still disturbing. They have, I must admit, worsened in the last few years."

He had a right to fear sleep, I realized. I would not like it if I had dreams such as his, especially if they had been occurring since adolescence. When he seemed more in control of himself, he looked gratefully at me and said, "I am surely lost without my Boswell. What would I do without you?"

Neither of us returned to bed that night. Holmes eventually dozed off, under my watchful gaze. I was worried for him. Lack of sleep did not help one's physical or mental health. I told myself that, at my first chance, I would look into various sleeping medicines.

I woke him for breakfast and he seemed much improved. He was his usual, arrogant self. He only asked one thing of me, that I not tell Mrs. Hudson. At first I thought out of shame, but I was surprised when he told me that he didn't want to worry her. And, even more surprisingly, I believed him. Our kind landlady had always, somehow, been quite in tune to Holmes's moods and health.

After a splendid breakfast, I got dressed and grabbed my cane and coat. As I crossed the threshold of the door, I turned back to look at my friend. "I will be back later, old chap." He bid me farewell and looked away. I continued. "You can tell me anything, Holmes. I just want you to know that."


End file.
